The Hourglass
by XPrincessX93
Summary: When Jess is flung back into the past, she thinks she's going crazy. When she realises that it's not just the past, but a fictional past that she never believed to exist, she thinks she needs to be committed. How will she cope knowing that the fate of another world - a world she never knew, was never a part of - now rests on her shoulders?
1. Prologue

My life had never been interesting. I had never done anything worthwhile, such as saved someone's life or wrote a worldwide bestselling novel. In fact, up until I was nineteen, nothing much happened to me. My life was plain, ordinary. Normal. Then it changed. Something happened to me that even to this day I suppose I can't really explain. All I know is that on that day, on the 25th August 2013, my life was altered, irreversibly.

I had never believed in magic, not really. Of course, there are the cheap magician's tricks that have been around for years, like pulling coins from behind your ear or sawing someone in half, but they aren't really magic, jut illusions. No, real magic was not something that I believed in. I suppose at some point in my childhood, probably at the age of nine or ten, around the age I began to read the Harry Potter books, I had wished with all my heart that it was real. But even then, when I was waiting by the post-box at the top of my drive on my eleventh birthday for some sign of an owl with a letter, I knew it was all fake, a fantasy, cooked up by one of the world's most talented authors. By the time I started secondary school and entered year eight and nine, I had forgotten about that stupid wish for magic to enter my life. By the time I finished College, and then moved onto University, my Harry Potter books were gathering dust on my bookshelves and were only picked up every once in a while, in secret. Magic was only real in books, or films. Not in real life. Everyone would know about it if it was.

Yeah. Right. That shows how naive the people of this world are. Just because you don't know about something doesn't mean it doesn't exist. A whole world could exist alongside your own and you wouldn't know it. I certainly didn't. I blindly thought magic only existed in books. Up until that day in August, when my life changed forever.


	2. Chapter 1

25th August 2013

I was stumbling through the dark streets of London at a very late (or early, depending how you look at it) hour. My feet were sore from being in my black six inch high pumps, and my high-waisted black skirt and grey lace crop top were doing nothing to keep the nightly chill away. I pulled my BlackBerry out of my clutch and looked at the time, just as Big Ben chimed in the distance. 1am. Great. I had been wandering the streets since 12:30, looking for my friend, Grace, who had stormed out the club after her ex threw a Magners over her 'accidentally'. Jerk.

"Grace!" I called out again, noticing that the wine-induced slur to my voice was slowing fading and that the chilly August night was sobering me up. I saw that I had turned onto Charing Cross Road, and sighed. I wasn't a local to London, was only visiting from up North, but I was pretty sure Charing Cross Road was nowhere near Grace's Halls of Residence, where I was staying, and where she had probably stormed off to. To make matters worse, despite the fact that I had visited London a few times in my life, I was still a compete novice when it came to using the London Underground, and so had absolutely no clue which line to get on or which direction to go in to get back to Bethnal Green tube station, which was the one we had taken the tube from on our way out earlier in the evening.

_Great going, Grace, leaving me in the middle of freaking London! _I huffed, and, unable to put it off anymore, sat down on one of the plastic seats in a nearby bus shelter, sighing in relief as the weight was taken off my feet. My new black pumps were gorgeous, with a lovely velvety material covering them. They, along with the rest of the outfit I had bought to wear for Grace's birthday, had cost me a chunk of my student overdraft – yet they were still uncomfortable after wearing them for seven hours straight. I shivered as the wind blew. My crop top came to above my belly button, and was only thin lace, so that my black bra was clearly visible through it. Despite the fact that my skirt was high waisted, it still left a strip of skin between it and my top, and it only flared out to mid thigh, meaning that my legs, arms, and most of my upper half were completely exposed to the biting wind. So much for summer. Bloody England.

I tried to call Grace again, but it cut straight to voicemail. It wouldn't have surprised me if she'd gone home and got changed out of her Magners-soaked dress and then gone straight back out again, forgetting all about me in her rage against her crazy ex. I quickly sent her a text, hoping she'd get it and call me back.

*Grace, call me, I'm lost - Jess x*

I sighed and ran a hand through my messy waves, then inwardly groaned as I saw the rain that was beginning to fall onto the pavement. Great. Just great. I so did not want to walk back in the rain. Maybe if I could find somewhere, a pub or something, I could ask them to call me a taxi and hope that Grace had some money back at the flat for me to pay the driver with. As thunder grumbled in the distance, I decided that this would be my best option, and I stood up and began to totter down the street, wincing at the pain in my feet. There were a few people ahead of me, a family by the look of it from the two taller figures carrying a child each, and one shorter one trailing behind. They were wearing coats (wish I'd thought to bring one), and obviously were looking for somewhere to escape the rain as well.

"Seriously Dad, how far is it? I'm knackered, that party was so boring, too!" I heard the shorter figure moan as I neared them. The taller one turned round to look at the shorter one, the hood of his coat (it looked more like a cloak now, from how close I was) fell back, and I saw his messy dark hair.

"Not far now, just round this corner James. Come on, son, keep up, Albus and Lily need their beds." The boy, James, shoved the hood off his own cloak and I saw he had the same messy hair as his father, and also that he looked around eleven or twelve. He petulantly kicked a stone and, as I walked closer to them, I saw him smirk as it bounced off his fathers' heal.

"I'll pretend I didn't feel that James," his father called behind him. "Come on."

"Yes, come on James," a female voice called, and I saw the other figure turn to look around, holding out her hand, the one that wasn't holding a sleeping child. She was smiling tiredly, her long red hair falling out of the hood of her cloak. The boy looked at his mother and smiled, rushing to catch up to her and grasp her hand.

"I didn't even want to go to that stupid party," I heard the boy, James, tell his mother. I continued to walk behind them. I began to wonder how they hadn't noticed me; my heels were certainly making enough noise on the pavement. They were obviously heading somewhere, and maybe that place was dry and had a taxi company's number.

"Now, James, be nice, Aunt Fleur put a lot of work into it. And, because you were really good, we'll get you something special when we go shopping for your school things tomorrow," the woman informed the boy. They suddenly stopped, and looked up at the building in front of them.

"See, we're here, now you can stop moaning, James," the man said. I looked at the building they were in front of, and frowned. They were staying there? In a rundown old shop? Erm...ok? The man seemed to have noticed that I had stopped walking when they had, because he turned to look at me, eyes narrowing, and walked forwards, the child still in his arms.

"Can I help you?" he asked. I blinked, startled that he was addressing me, and smoothed down my short skirt, feeling slightly exposed.

"Erm...no, sorry, I was just wondering if you had the number for a taxi firm? I'm kind of lost, and stranded," I thought that was the best thing to say, rather than 'I was following you to see where you were going'.

"No, sorry, I don't," the man told me, his voice suddenly a lot gentler, "I think there should be some up on the main street up there, though, you could give them a try?"

"Oh, thank you," I said, feeing quite annoyed at Grace now. How the hell was I supposed to get back? The man smiled at me and, securing the sleeping child (I now noticed it was a dark haired boy), turned and walked back to his family, and they walked into the dilapidated old shop. I frowned, what could they possibly want –

My eyes went wide. How on Earth? The shop was not a shop; either that or I was seeing things. It looked like a very odd pub. The windows were dark, and a sign hanging above the door read 'The Leaky Cauldron'. The family were obviously staying there. 'The Leaky Cauldron'? What crazy person would name a pub after the one in Harry Potter? My alcohol addled brain could not work it out. Sighing, and deciding that I really needed to find a way to get back to Grace's Halls, I began to wander down the street again, in the direction the man had pointed.

Then my life changed. As I cast one last look back at the odd looking pub, just to make sure that it was actually a pub and not an abandoned shop, as I had first thought, I saw it. It was glinting on the ground in the doorway of the pub, in the light from the above street light, and I moved back towards it. Maybe the family had dropped something? I crouched down to have a closer look, squinting to make my vision clearer – I'd seriously had too much bubbly.

It was a thin, golden chain, with what looked like a small hourglass charm on the end. How cute, I thought to myself, and I reached out to pick it up.

I can't really explain what happened next, or why, in my drunken state, I found it cool that the hourglass spun, or why I thought it would be a good idea to spin it. All I know is that I did, and in that next second I felt like my world had been turned on an axis and was spinning wildly, like when you're on the Waltzers at the fair. I remember becoming so dizzy that I shut my eyes, and then, when it got too much, I fell to the pavement, my head cracking against something solid.

That was the end of the world as I knew it.

**OK! So, Hope you're all likeing it so far, I know it's only the first proper chapter but I have big ideas for this story. Did you guess who the family of people were? Pretty sure you did! **

**My theory for this story, to avoid any confusion, is that even if the Harry Potter Books existed, to Muggles they could be a set of story books, but to wizards a series of books chronicling the life of 'The Boy Who Lived'. If there really was a Wizarding World out there, how would ordinary muggle people even know about it? This story, rather than being one where someone gets transported into the Harry Potter world, is one where the world of Harry Potter already exists alongside the ordinary world, but it was just never known about about by the Muggles, who would believe it to be just a fictional story. However, there is still a little meddling by magic thrown in there (how else will Jess get to Hogwarts when she is nineteen?). **

**Anyway, next chapter should be up soon. Any reviews, good or bad, would be appreciated, to improve my writing skills. Thanks! **


	3. Chapter 2

Ouch. That was my first thought as pain filled my head. My second thought was that I was cold, and that I was wet. Cracking my eyes open, I found myself lying face down on the cold, uncomfortable pavement. Why? Then, it all came flooding back to me: Grace abandoning me, struggling to get a taxi, some idiot naming their pub after the one in Harry Potter, and then finding that necklace with the hourglass on the end. After that it was all a bit blurry. I remembered feeling as though everywhere was spinning, to the point where I was so dizzy I had lost my balance. I suppose I must have hit my head on the pavement, thus knocking myself out. Pushing myself up, I noticed that it was still raining, and that I was absolutely soaked. I was still on Charing Cross Road, but I noticed that certain things were different. The bus stop I had been sitting in was no longer there, and the cafe that had been across the road was a dressmakers' instead. I frowned, and turned to look at the pub that I had been lying in front of. The Leaky Cauldron. It certainly didn't look as worn as it had done before I'd been knocked unconscious; in fact, the sign hanging above the door looked relatively new. The lights inside were off, and I supposed that was because of how late it was. It was then that I heard voices, muffled ones, which suddenly became louder as two people emerged from an alleyway next to the pub.

"She's just down here, in front of that old shop, Sir. Found her unconscious on the floor," an old woman, with greying hair in a long floral dress was saying to a man in a blue uniform. Policeman, I realised, wondering if the police in London wore old dress, like the guards at Buckingham Palace with the fluffy hats did. That would explain his old fashioned uniform. They both came towards me, and the old woman suddenly cried out and rushed to kneel next to me on the pavement.

"Oh, deary, you're awake! How are you feeling? Don't you worry; this nice policeman is going to look after you! Oh, look at your head, it's bleeding something terrible!" she rushed out, hands fluttering over me but not touching me, as though unsure of how to help me. I just sat there, arms propping myself up, feeling the cold of the pavement and the wetness of the raindrops.

"It's not that bad, Agnes," the policeman told the woman in a gruff voice. He was older, too, in his early fifties by the looks of it, with a worn face and greying hair sticking out from beneath his hat.

"You get yourself off home, before there's a damn air raid and you're caught in it," he told the old woman, Agnes. She huffed to herself, but got up and began to leave all the same. I got the feeling he knew her, as though she was one of those busybodies who was always getting into peoples' business, or one of those old people who took it upon themselves to start their very own Neighbourhood Watch and was always reporting trivial things to the police.

"Goodbye dear!" she said cheerily to me, but I didn't notice, I was too busy think over what the officer had said. Air raid? What? I was brought back to my senses by the policeman clearing his throat. I looked up, and saw him looking over me, not in a leering way, but a suspicious way. His eyes paused over my exposed belly button (the waistband of my skirt had pulled down slightly), and thus the piercing there, and my skirt, which fell messily around my upper thighs. Then, he took in my bruised and bloodied knees, sore from their impact with the pavement. He raised his eyebrows.

"Care to tell me what a young girl like you is doing out in the middle of London at this time of night, there is a war going on, you know? And I can bet my right arm your mother didn't let you go out like that? What on earth are you wearing? You're worse than those women down in Whitechapel," he shook his head condescendingly.

"What do you mean there's a war going on?" I asked, ignoring the rest of his sentence. First he talks about air raids, and now a war? Was he one of those crazy war veterans? He looked a little too young.

"Ah, we have ourselves a northerner, from up Durham way by the sounds of it. Well, I'm pretty sure they still know who Hitler is up there, so you can stop pulling my leg. Now, get up, I'm taking you home and having a stern chat with your mother. Letting a young girl your age out dressed like that, at this time, barely more than sixteen by the looks of it, too..." he carried on mumbling to himself, helping to pull me to my feet. Hitler?

"Wait, Hitler? Hitler's dead!" I stopped the policeman dead in his tracks. He just stared at me.

"Unless he died in the past hour, I can assure you he is very much alive. Listened to the wireless before I left for patrol," he sniffed, his eyes narrowing curiously at me.

"No! He's dead! Hitler died in 1945!" I protested, getting quite annoyed at this crazy man; was he even a police officer?

"Look, sweetheart, Hitler is very much alive, get your facts right before you go shouting that and getting everyone's hopes up!" he was almost raising his voice.

"I have got my facts right!" I spat at him, getting seriously frustrated. "I'm doing a bloody History degree; I think I know when Hitler died. 1945, when the war ended!" Now, the police officer really stopped and looked at me, his eyes narrowing his eyes in suspicion.

"Love, it is 1942," he said quietly, "and I can assure you that the war is very much going on and Hitler is indeed alive." I blinked away the tears. He was being serious. I spun on my heel and looked around me and up and down the street as far as I could see. There were no high street shops on the street, no Boots, or Superdrug, or even a New Look or Costa Coffee. The bus stop was gone, as were the bus lane markings on the road. Parked a few yards up were a few cars, but not cars I was used to seeing; the kind I expected to see in films about the 1940s, or in my history books. Then there was his uniform, the kind you would expect a policeman in the 1940s to wear. I saw one of the old fashioned, black bins a few metres away and hurried towards it, grabbing the crumpled up newspaper from the top of it. Despite its ink being smudged from the rain, which was still pattering down, it clearly read 6th August 1942, in fancy lettering across the top.

"That's a few days old, that, it's the 10th today," the policeman informed me, watching me carefully. He was looking at me as though I should be committed to a mental asylum, and for once I was inclined to agree with him, but I knew from my studies what the asylums were like in the old days, and I did not want to end up in Bethlehem Asylum, or Bedlam, as it was sometimes known. Assuming that I was in the 1940s, and with the way I was being looked at, I was inclined to think that, I decided to at least go along with the policeman.

"I must have hit my head quite hard," I faked putting a hand to my forehead and swooning, "I remember now, I'm so sorry for being so troublesome, of course it's 1942, just ignore what I said, Officer." It worked. The officer shook his head and smiled at me.

"Don't worry, now, let's get you home, maybe your mother should get a doctor to see you tomorrow, where do you live?" I froze. I didn't have anywhere to go, if this was, in fact, 1942 – which I was slowly beginning to panic that it was.

"I...I don't have anywhere to go," I managed to get out through my panicked breathing. What the hell was I going to do? That was when the officer really looked at me. My bruised and grazed knees, short skirt, bloody head wound on my forehead, and my very exposed chest, and my face, wet with blood and now tears. He shifted uncomfortably.

"I'm not going to ask what happened to you," he began, "but just know that there are a lot of young girls in your situation. You're too young to provide for yourself, I don't care if you have no parents, there are procedures in place to help you." At my completely confused look, he sighed.

"I know of an orphanage that will take you in, at least until the proper paperwork has been sorted. I shall take you there tonight. I know Mrs Cole well, in fact, she will sort you right out." If that was meant to be comforting, it was not. And I was nineteen, too old to go to an orphanage.

"I...I'm too old," I stuttered, I could feel myself forcing the panic down, and as for now it was working.

"You can't be. You only look fifteen, sixteen at the most. Come on, let's go, you're not getting out of this. You may not have had the best start to life, but you'll get sorted, don't you worry."

I went along with the lie, telling him that I was fifteen. It would mean I got somewhere to stay for the night, at least. I reached down for my clutch bag, noticing for the first time since I had awoken the little hourglass necklace. I picked it up and slipped it over my neck, tucking it into my top, and grudgingly followed the policeman. Everything was so surreal, and I just wanted a warm bed to go to sleep in so that I could wake up and find that it had all been a dream, or a drunken hallucination.

**A/N So, another chapter done. I'm going to be updating quite frequently, just until I get into the main storyline, so that it gets to the interesting stuff. Next chapter will introduce Tom Riddle! Let's see how he reacts to a 21st century girl, and will Jess realise that not only is she in 1942, but who Tom Riddle actually is?**

**Please Review! Thanks**


	4. Chapter 3

10th August 1942

Tom Riddle was not happy. Not only was he forced to stay in this godforsaken orphanage for the whole summer, but he had also been given responsibility. Ordinarily, he wouldn't have minded this. At Hogwarts, he was hoping to be made Prefect, and was expecting his letter any day now ready for the start of his fifth year in September. However, although being a Prefect meant doing nightly patrols and being allowed into the out-of-bounds areas, not to mention having the authority over others and being able to give detention, he only found that appealing at Hogwarts – where he could do magic to enforce his will. Here, stuck in this grey orphanage that was overflowing with children, he couldn't care less about doing nightly patrols, or ensuring all the younger children actually ate their dinner. He had no way of formally punishing them without his wand, except for the fact that they were all already absolutely petrified. He supposed that was why Mrs Cole had given him the task of patrolling the corridors on a night; no one would try and sneak out of bed if they thought they would be caught by Tom Riddle. Yet, he still found this task tedious; unlike Hogwarts, there was nowhere interesting to go in Wools Orphanage. Nothing interesting ever happened. That was why, in the early hours of 10th August, he was very surprised to hear a banging on the front door.

It was well after 1am, and he had finished his last patrol at midnight, but had stayed up to read his book. The loud knocker on the front door banged twice, and then a third time. Tom heard scuffles downstairs as Mrs Cole was awoken and hurried to answer the door. He found this odd, because no one ever came to the orphanage this late unless it was a woman in need of help – and then the knocking was usually accompanied by shouts or screams. This time it wasn't. Tom got up from his desk and pulled on his worn grey jacket, which had become part of his uniform when he had refused to wear the ugly grey tunics the other residents wore. He slipped his feet back into his shoes and slowly walked down the hall and then down the creaky staircase. He arrived on the landing opposite the entrance area and stood there, in the shadows, certain that Mrs Cole was too preoccupied to notice him.

In the entranceway stood a police officer, and his hand was clasped firmly on the shoulder of a young girl.

"Found her out by Charing Cross, didn't know where else to bring her. She has nowhere to go, apparently," the officer informed Mr Cole in a matter-of-fact voice, but it was clear that his eyes were conveying an unspoken message to the matron. Tom saw Mrs Cole slowly look the girl up and down then, with a 'humph' sound, she gestured for the officer to move into her office with her.

"Stay here," she told the girl sharply, and for added measure she relocked the front door and tucked the key into her dressing gown pocket. She shuffled after the officer into her office, and Tom grimaced; he hated that woman, someone like her should not be put in charge of children.

Now that Mrs Cole was not blocking her from view, Tom could see the girl quite clearly. He was surprised. Very surprised, and a slight bit disgusted; he knew at once why Mrs Cole wanted to speak to the officer alone. This girl was not the type of girl who would usually be taken in at the orphanage as a resident; it was the kind of girl Tom would expect to hammer down the door in the middle of the night heavy with child and in need of help, despite her only looking fifteen or sixteen (he had seen it all before, living in this place).

Tom stared at her exceptionally revealing clothes. She looked absolutely disgraceful, not composed and correct like a girl her age should be: his eyes raked over the practically transparent shirt, exposed midriff, and_ very _short skirt, which barely touched mid-thigh. Her legs bore no stockings and her feet were in the most ridiculous pair of shoes Tom had ever seen a woman wear. Her face was a mess of heavy make-up, which he guessed had once been done to perfection, but was now smeared down her face with a mixture of rain and blood. What in Merlin's name had she been doing? Well, he thought with a sneer, he could guess.

Blood. That was when he noticed the wound on her forehead, matting some of her dark hair together, and the bloody and bruised scrapes on her knees. It didn't take a genius – and Tom was a genius – to know what had happened to her. Tom knew immediately why Mrs Cole had wanted to speak to the officer; she did not normally allow girls like this to enter her establishment. Tom thought it was far from respectable, the orphanage; it was a house for the unwanted, the tainted, the abandoned. He didn't belong there; he was destined to do great things – this girl was just some more riff-raff to add to Mrs Cole's collection.

The girl shifted at that moment, shivering, and wrapped her arms around herself, letting out a small sigh. She turned on her heel slightly, and gasped. Her blue eyes were staring directly at him, and he held her gaze. She narrowed her eyes, and opened her mouth, about to say something by the look of it, but then the door to Mrs Cole's office opened, and voices filled the entryway.

"Thank you, I shall send someone by in the morning with the necessary paperwork and to speak to the girl," the policeman was saying, putting his hat back on his balding head. Mrs Cole was nodding briskly, her face obviously showing her disapproval at letting the girl stay.

"Make sure you do."

They shook hands and then she let the officer out the door before securely locking it once more. Then she turned to the girl, her night cap slightly askew on her greying hair and her off-white dressing gown coming loose at the waist. She tied it again abruptly, and then addressed the girl.

"Look at the state of you," she tutted. Tom had to admire the girl; she raised her head and just stared at Mrs Cole, before retorting.

"Well you try being knocked unconscious in the cold and rain and see how you look afterwards," she sniped back. Tom smirked. Then there was a loud SMACK, and the next second the girls head was whipped to the side, and Mrs Cole had a triumphant look on her face. The girl glared at her, hands balling into fists. Spirit, Tom thought. He liked spirit - as long as it was contained.

"One more word out of you and you'll be back out on the streets where you belong," Mrs Cole warned, and Tom saw the girl relax her stance, obviously not wishing to sacrifice her bed for the night. He decided now might be a good time to move from his hiding spot, as they were slowly moving towards the foot of the stairs.

"What is your name, girl?"

"Jessica," the girl sighed, running a hand through her messy hair. Her voice sounded weak, Tom thought with distaste, no hint of the fighting spirit he had just seen. Pathetic. He began to move back up the stairs and along the hall to his room, but not before he heard Mrs Cole order the girl, Jessica, upstairs.

**A/N – well, another chapter done. I wanted to put Tom's view on things. Next chapter will be back to Jess's point of view. Once they have become acquianted and she realises what is going on, all will be explained about her situation. **

**Pease review! Let me know what you think!**


	5. Chapter 4

11th August 1942

The first thing I noticed, when I slowly opened my eyes the next morning, was that my bed was awfully uncomfortable. I'd have to tell Grace to get onto Halls management; she was paying £112 per week for this room so the mattresses should at least allow a comfortable night's sleep. Then, my eyes focussed and I took in the dirty, cracked ceiling that I was staring up at. I bolted upright. Everything came flooding back; I wasn't in Grace's Halls of Residence. I was in some kind of orphanage. It hadn't been a dream, then.

I cast a look round the dingy, little room I had been allocated upon my arrival in the early hours of the morning. I was on a tiny bed with a worn down mattress so thin that I could practically feel the creaky, metal frame through it. The sheets were thin, off-white pieces of cotton with a thick, grey blanket over them. To my left, in the corner next to the bed, was a single desk, similar to the old-fashioned kind you sat exams at in school, and a rickety hard-backed chair. The walls were bare, and on the far wall opposite the bed was a wardrobe that had definitely seen better days. A mirror hung, lonely, on the wall beside it. My Halls of Residence hadn't even been this bad. God, what a shit tip, I thought.

Tiny chinks of light were creating striped patterns on the wall and ceiling as the sun fought to get through the faded, grey curtains, covering the small, square window. I slowly got up off the bed, feeling my joints ache and my knees sting. I inspected the grazes, and noticed they weren't as bad as they had appeared last night. I frowned as I saw that my shiny, purple nail varnish was chipped on my right index finger. Then, I reached up to run a hand through my wild hair; it felt scraggly, but strangely longer than it usually was. Confused, I walked over the floorboards in my bare feet (the torturous hoes had long been discarded by the bed) and looked at myself in the mirror.

My jaw dropped.

How?...What? HUH? Oh, no way!

My make up was smeared down my face in thick, black streaks, my face looked pale and washed out, and my hair was knotted and grimy. The cut on the left side of my forehead had stopped bleeding, and looked bruised and sore (which it was) and the blood from it was dried and mixing with the mascara and eyeliner down my cheeks. But that was not what surprised me; I had expected to look like a tramp.

My hands shot to my hair, tugging bits of it out to the side, and I anxiously peered at it, my face as close to the mirror as I could get. How? My hair was at least three inches longer than it had been last night, and it now fell to the bottom of my breasts, instead of just before them. And, worst of all, my highlights were gone. Yep, gone. Absolutely not one trace of caramel or blonde in my dark brown hair at all. _What the hell?_

Then things started to get even weirder. Because, as I began to look at myself more closely, I started to notice certain things. Now, the previous night, when the police officer had been under the illusion that I was fifteen, I had presumed it was because I have always looked young for my age. I hadn't bothered to correct him because I had not wanted to risk losing a bed for the night. Now, however, I could see exactly what he meant. I did not just look like a young nineteen year old, I looked fifteen. Actually fifteen. And not just fifteen, I looked like myself four years previous.

My highlights, which I had first got at seventeen, had vanished, and my cheekbones, though still defined, were more subtle, soft almost. Although dreading what I would find, I looked down at myself and found more abnormalities. The skirt I was wearing seemed a little tight, as though it was a dress size too small, and the shirt was loose around my breasts. My bra felt awkward, as thought I hadn't grown into it yet.

When I was fifteen, I had been a dress size bigger than what I was a nineteen – a comfortable, curvy but still thin, size that my friends had envied. I had lost a lot of weight after the car accident when I was sixteen, and had never managed to put all of it back on. The skirt I was wearing, a size eight, was a size that would have been slightly too small for my fifteen year old self, as was the shirt. The bra was a different story. Looking like a compete pervert, I placed both hands to my top and pulled it away from my chest, cautiously peering down. Bloody fantastic (note the sarcasm here). At fifteen, I had been a small B cup, not a fully proportioned C. Well, shit. This certainly explained why I had looked young enough to be accepted into the orphanage. Did they even have orphanages anymore? I was sure they were all children's homes or foster care centres now. Orphanages were like something out of the old days.

What on earth was going on? I began to think over the events of the previous night. Losing Grace, the pub called The Leaky Cauldron, the funny hourglass necklace (that was still tucked round my neck), waking up and having some policeman try and make me think it was 1942. Only, he had been pretty convincing, and that newspaper had backed up his story. I knew I had to determine what in God's name had happened. So, giving a quick glance back at the mirror and still trying to get over the shock of my new reflection, I walked towards the door. It had an old, brass handle, and was stiff to turn. When I was finally out into the corridor, I looked up and down. Doors lined both walls, and at the end of the corridor to my right was a staircase. I headed towards that, my bare feet feeling the cold wood of the floorboards.

The walls were bare, with the odd grubby painting, grey with dust, few and far between. The house was silent. I couldn't hear anything. I leant over the banister as far as I could and peered downward, my hair falling into my vision – it hadn't been this long in years, and I remembered why I had originally got a few inches cut off; it got everywhere. I appeared to be on the second floor, with two floors below this one. I looked up and saw another two sets of stairs leading up; there must be another two floors above, too. How many people lived here? I continued to peer down the staircase, wondering what I should do and where I should go. If I was really in 1942 – and I really didn't believe I was – then I needed to find someone who could help me besides committing me to a lunatic asylum, even though I was beginning to think I belonged in one. Where the hell was I?

"Can I help you?" a voice spoke from behind me. It was cold and detached, and sounded rather bored. It was also male. It surprised me so much that I jumped spun round to face the corridor I had just come down, and very nearly slipped down the stairs. I gasped and caught myself, pushing some hair out of my eyes.

The boy standing in front of me looked around my age (well, fifteen, the age my body seemed to have reverted back to), with dark hair and a demeanour to match. His icy blue eyes were staring straight at me, and it was when I met them that I remembered him from the night before. His stare had cut right through me as he had hidden in the shadows. His grey jacket and trousers were slightly too small for him, so that more of his ankles and wrists were shown than necessary. How odd for a boy of fifteen to be wearing anything other than jeans or tracksuit bottoms.

"Erm...yeah, actually, you can," I managed to say, once my heart had stopped its little attack from almost falling down a flight of stairs. "I arrived late last night, and I don't know where to go? I think I need to see... Mrs Cole, is it?" I rushed out, eager to get to the bottom of why I was here and what was going on.

"I'm Jess, by the way," I said quickly, shoving my hand out. The boy slowly lowered his gaze to my hand, and the corner of his mouth turned up in disgust. His eyes travelled back up to my face, and I just raised my eyebrows in a 'what?' expression.

"Fine, don't shake my hand, then. I'm not infectious, you know?" the boy looked as though he very much doubted that, and the sneer remained in place on his face.

"What's your name?" still no answer.

"Fine," I sighed, irritated. "Be that way. But _you_ _asked_ if _you_ could help _m_e; so, where do I go?" I asked. If he didn't answer this time I was going to walk away. Arrogant prat.

"Mrs Cole's office is the room to the left of the front door. Ground floor," he said. His face was suddenly a mask of calm collection; he obviously did not want me to know that I was irritating him. I smirked.

"Thanks. And your name?" he just glared. I crossed my arms over my chest and refused to break his gaze. I was trying to be God damn friendly! God, men – so much more hassle than they're worth.

"Tom? Tom? Tom Riddle you will answer me when I call for you!" I heard a voice suddenly screech. I saw the boy's eyes flare with rage and his hand twitched and was immediately settled over his pocket. We both turned to look as a woman dressed in a drab black dress, her greying hair pinned back in a sharp bun, stalked up the stairs. With a groan, I recognised her from the night before. Mrs Cole.

"Yes, Mrs Cole?" the boy drawled out, seemingly bored. So, this was Tom, then? What did she say his surname was, Riddle? Tom Riddle? Another name out of Harry Potter? Where one earth had I ended up, the nut house? The Harry Potter Fans Anonymous ward? Come to think of it, wasn't the head of Tom Riddle's orphanage called Mrs Cole? God, they're all mad; bloody lunatics the lot of them.

"You were required at breakfast," Mrs Cole's tone was clipped and sharp as she reprimanded Tom. His eyes were blazing with an unknown emotion, and when he answered her he was obviously containing his anger at her.

"I am sorry, Mrs Cole. I was merely helping our new arrival," he said, his tone so fake and sugary it made me cringe. The matron, however, did not appear to notice. Instead, her beady eyes moved to me, and she made no attempt at hiding her disgust.

"You!" she suddenly barked. "Did I not tell you last night to remain in your room until I summoned you?!" I think I vaguely recalled her telling me something along those lines, but I kept my face impassive. I caught Tom Riddle smirking at me from over Mrs Cole's shoulder, and I narrowed my eyes at him to show that I wasn't impressed at him diverting the old hag's attention to me.

"Get back to your room this instant! I do not want you influencing the other children with your wicked ways girl!" Mrs Cole had grabbed my arm with bruising force, and I was dragged back along the corridor, Tom Riddle being left behind.

I sat on the tiny bed, my back resting against the wall and my knees pulled up to my chest. I still couldn't understand what was going on. Why was I here? Why did that policeman seem determined that it was 1942, and why was everyone dressed as though it was? Where was Grace? And why the bloody hell was everyone named after Harry Potter characters? So what if the books are a global phenomenon, there's a limit on far a fan can go without bordering on lunacy.

Mrs Cole seemed to hate me, although I couldn't recall doing anything to offend her the night before. Apparently, I was to stay in my room until the Police sent an Official to the orphanage to assess me and my situation and decide what to do with me. I had asked Mrs Cole, before she had rudely flung me into my room and locked the door, whether I could have some clean clothes, or at least some water to clean my injuries and freshen up. That had to wait until after the Official had seen me, apparently. Mrs Cole said something about not wanting me to give false impressions.

I just wanted to go home. Seriously, whatever was going on here was weird, like someone was splaying a sick joke on me by trying to get me to believe it was 1942. The orphanage matched descriptions I had read about the mid-20th century establishments for unwanted or orphaned children, everyone talked strange, and dressed like my grandparents. The whole Harry Potter thing just furthered my conclusion that this whole thing was a wind up. I just hope the culprit came clean soon so that I could go home.

I had been in this room for an hour so far, and no one had come for me. I was beginning to think I would waste away and be forgotten about, when the lock clicked and the door creaked open.

"You. With me, now," Mrs Cole ordered. I got up and followed her, still barefoot and wincing as a splinter off of a floorboard caught my toe.

The orphanage was quiet as I followed her down the stairs. The floor below was another corridor full of bedrooms, and then the ground floor seemed to hold a recreational room, dining room, school room, and Mrs Cole's office. I caught a glimpse of a small, redheaded child peering through the crack in the door that said 'Recreational Room', and I gave her a small wink. She giggled and shut the door quickly.

"_Don't _you interact with _my_ children, girl! In there, now!" Mrs Cole snapped, shoving me into her office. I was forced into a hard backed chair opposite the fireplace, and then she headed towards the door.

"The Official from the police is in my private sitting room. He requested to speak to you alone. _Don't _disgrace yourself more than you already have!" I was warned, and then the matron left, and I was all alone again.

I was staring into the dirty fire grate when I heard a noise to my left. The door next to the mantle opened, and I jumped. I hadn't noticed that door before, but it only made sense that the entrance to Mrs Cole's private sitting room was in her study. A man in an old fashioned black suit jacked and trousers entered, a cane in one hand and a bowler hat in the other. His greying, auburn hair was shaggy and long, past his shoulders, as was his beard. He cleared his throat, discarding his cane and hat on the nearby table, before turning to me, his blue eyes twinkling behind his half moon spectacles.

"Hello there, Jessica. It is ever so nice to finally meet you. I have heard so much about you, yet I expect that you know much more about me," he held out his hand. Slightly confused, as I had never met this man in my life and I certainly didn't know anything about him, I stood and cautiously shook his hand. His grip was firm yet gentle, and as he withdrew his hand he seemed to notice me staring completely and utterly confused at him.

"Oh, excuse my manners, Miss Harrows," he said in his soft tone. How does he know my surname? I never told Mrs Cole or that police officer. He straightened his jacket and gestured for me to sit back down, which I did, slowly. I suddenly felt very exposed in the presence of someone who seemed to know more about me than I them. He seemed to sense my unease, so he cleared his throat and continued to speak.

"Forgive me for being so rude, I am Professor Albus Dumbledore, and it is a pleasure to meet you at long last, Miss Harrows."

**A/N – So, what do you think? The next two chapters will see everything revealed, to an extent. I still want to keep some mystery but it will all become a lot clearer. After that I am hoping to move the story along a little quicker, as I am very aware that I have spent four chapters and only a night has passed, but I wanted everyone to get a feel for Jess's character. I want to get onto more interactions with Tom Riddle, and especially to get onto how they cope together at Hogwarts. Although, I believe it will be interesting to see how he copes with another magical person at the orphanage. Hope everyone's enjoying, and keep reviewing!**

**Thank you very much to geekyassangie and Theta-McBride for your reviews – they are keeping me motivated! I hope you have enjoyed this chapter :). **


	6. Chapter 5

I stood, frozen, in front of the door in Mrs Cole's office, one hand resting on the door handle. A rational part of me knew that it was locked, but having a hand on the handle comforted me as I felt I had a potential escape route. I could feel myself trembling slightly, and I took deep breaths to calm myself. The man, who by now had pretty much convinced me that he really _was _Albus Dumbledore, pointed his wand – yes, I did say _wand – _at the desk he currently had in flames. I let out a breath I didn't know I had been holding as the flames evaporated and the desk remained unharmed. _He's telling the truth,_ I thought.

The past half an hour had consisted of Dumbledore repeatedly trying to tell me that I was not going mad, I was not in a loony bin for crazed Harry Potter fans, and I most definitely was not in 2013 anymore. I was in 1942, and he really was Albus Dumbledore, and the pub I had seen really was the Leaky Cauldron, Mrs Cole really was the old cow who had ran Wools Orphanage in the Harry Potter books, and – now this was the most important one – that prat upstairs really was the future Lord Voldemort. Dumbledore had, after me spending a full thirty minutes interrupting his every sentence with some rational explanation – I was in a loony bin, I had hit my head too hard, I was dreaming, this was a prank – pulled out this bit of wood (his wand!) and promptly set Mrs Cole's desk on fire. That was when I went running for the hills. Well, more accurately, door.

"Please, calm down, Miss Harrows. I know this is a lot to take in, but I promise that you are in no danger, no harm will come to you," Dumbledore said calmly. "If you would please come and sit-"

"How do you know my name?!" I practically shouted, interrupting him.

"I know a great deal about you, Jessica Harrows. You were born on 1st January 1993 in County Durham, to Robert and Miranda Harrows. Miranda Harrows, incidentally, in your time is a powerful Seer, albeit a Squib. Now, if you would please come and sit down, I shall explain everything, including what I can tell you about how you are here. Although, that object you have around your neck may be able to provide that answer for you," his voice was gently and his blue eyes twinkled. I saw no immediate danger, and although my mind was vehemently denying that it was impossible to be in this situation, I was beginning to see no other explanation. I pulled the charm on the chain from beneath my shirt and looked at it closely. The little hourglass caught the light. I gasped.

"A Time Turner?" I asked, my voice held disbelief, more so at the question I had actually just asked than the uniqueness of the object in my hand.

"Indeed." Slowly, I walked back over to my chair.

"Ah, shall we sit in something more comfortable? These chairs are ghastly contraptions," he gestured to the wooden tall-backed chair, and waved his wand. Two plush armchairs suddenly appeared; one right in front of me. I must have jumped back about ten feet. Upon seeing my wide eyes and pale face, Dumbledore gave a little laugh.

"A little too soon?" he asked, although I could see the amusement dancing in his eyes. "Please, take a seat." I did so and he did the same, clasping his hands and leaning back in the chair. I stayed perched on the edge of my seat.

"Now, I believe you want to know why you are here?" Dumbledore asked.

"Not so much the first question on my mind," I said, sharply. "I'm more interested in how you are real? How is magic real?"

"Magic, our world, has always been real. The books you adored so much as a child were mere fiction to you, and other muggles alike. To us, however, they are – or will be, in the future – a series of books chronicling the life of The Boy Who Lived," Dumbledore said calmly. I opened my mouth to ask more questions, but he held up a hand. "Before this conversation progresses any further, I would like to say that I do not know who The Boy Who Lived is, or what these books are called. I will pretend I did not hear you call me a 'Harry Potter lunatic' earlier. I must not know about the future, or what information lies in these books. I was only given certain information to relay to you, and that is all I wish to know." He cleared his throat and continued his explanation.

"I was visited some months ago by someone, whose identity must remain a secret to you, and told that on the 10th August 1942, a girl would be arriving in London. A girl from the future, 2013 to be exact. She would be tricked into picking up a charmed Time Turner, which had been set to go off upon her touch, and transport her back in time, to Charing Cross Road. I arranged someone to be in Charing Cross Road last night, to see that you were safe and unharmed. Agnes really outdid herself, I must say. I discovered where you were this morning, and I intercepted the police official coming to speak to you. He is in the sitting room, having a lie down," the old man looked thoroughly amused. I most certainly was not.

"Someone sent me here?" I screeched, enraged, "this was done _on purpose_! Why? And that batty old woman was a witch?" I had been well and truly set up. And there was an unconscious police official in the room next door. Oh my.

"All my visitor told me was that you believed the magical world to be fiction, out of a series of books. They gave me some information regarding your background, so I might be able to convince you in believing that this is all reality, as you would believe yourself to be a muggle. They said that the future needed to be changed for the greater good, but would not say any more. _You are meant to change the future, Jessica_," Dumbledore finished, looking me straight in the eyes. I gaped at him. Crazy old man.

"And just how am I meant to change the future, if you don't mind my asking? And why do I look fifteen? I'm nineteen! And adult, not some bratty schoolgirl, been there done that, thanks." I crossed my arms over my chest, crossing my legs (although I quickly realised I may have just flashed my knickers at _Dumbledore_, so hurriedly uncrossed them).

"That, my dear, is for you to figure out. I was instructed to give you this, you must not open it until I have left," he handed me a parchment envelope with my name written in elegant looping handwriting on the front. "As for your age, I can only guess. But I would assume that you needed to be the correct age to attend Hogwarts, and to do the task set out for you. A nineteen year old cannot go to school."

"Now, do you believe me?" Dumbledore implored, and I just stared at him, hands clasped tightly around the envelope. I had seen him set a desk on fire with a _wand_, I had a _Time Turner_ around my neck, everyone spoke and dressed like the 1940s, and they were all characters – no, _people _– out of Harry Potter.

"Yes," I breathed. There was no other possible explanation. Dumbledore gave me a friendly smile.

"Now, my dear, I have some money here, both muggle and wizarding," he handed me two heavy leather bags. "I will create false memories in Mr Pinket's mind before I apparate out – he is the police official. He will inform Mrs Cole that you are to stay here, and be treated like any other resident. She will be told to allow you into London to purchase clothes and necessities. In two weeks time you will receive a letter from Hogwarts, informing you that you have a place there for your fifth year. A letter will be sent to Mr Tom Riddle, who also lives here. He attends Hogwarts also, and as well as his school letter he will be told to accompany you to Diagon Alley to purchase your school things. How's your French?" Dumbledore asked me out of the blue, at the end of his well thought out explanation.

"Er, o-ok. I got a B in it at A-Level," I stammered out, trying to take in all this information.

"Good. You are English, but your parent's homeschooled you in magic because of the threat of Grindelwald, as your mother has always been very overprotective. When the muggle war started, they moved you to the French countryside, to a small muggle village near to the Alpes, as they believed that the bombs in London were too dangerous. You continued your homeschooling there, and that is why you can speak French relatively well," Dumbledore finished. Oh, this was my cover story! He had really thought this out. God, this was really happening.

"But why am I here now then, if I'm meant to be in the France?" I asked. I wanted to know everything; this cover story might just stop me getting thrown into an asylum for claiming to be a time traveller.

"Your mother and father took a trip to London and died in a bomb attack. You took their emergency portkey to London after the news of their deaths, meaning to go and stay with your grandmother. She, unfortunately, proved to be dead upon your arrival to her house - she had been very ill. You wandered around the streets looking for help, very upset of course, when you fell and hit you head. That explains why you look such a mess. You know the story from there," Dumbledore smiled, and I felt myself nodding. That was a reasonable plan. At least until I could find a way home. "Of course, to the muggles your parents merely died in a bombing and you had nowhere else to go upon discovering your deceased grandmother."

"Ok," I nodded. I was nowhere near believing that I wasn't going mad, but there was no denying that this was actually happening. _He had set a desk on fire, and it didn't burn!_ I was either a raving lunatic with hallucinations, or this was happening. I'd quite like to think the latter. Dumbledore was grabbing has bowler hat and cane, obviously ready to leave, and I stood up, too.

"Professor, what did you mean when you said my mother was a Squib, and a Seer?" He'd better not be suggesting my mother was as batty as Trelawney.

"I suggest you do some research on your family history. How are you magical? You _have_ been accepted into Hogwarts, after all," Dumbledore winked. "Now, you go on back up to your room and tell Mrs Cole that Mr Pinket wishes to speak with her," Dumbledore told me. I shook his hand and thanked him (for what I'm not sure) and headed towards the door, which clicked open at a flick of his wand.

"Oh, and Miss Harrows," Dumbledore stopped me, "Mr Riddle must not know of your magical ability until he gets his letter. Until then you are both just muggles to each other, understand?"

"Yes," of course, how would I know Riddle for a wizard if we weren't allowed to use magic underage?

"Very well then, Miss Harrows," Dumbledore tipped his hat towards me, "I shall look forward to seeing you in September."

That evening, I was sat on the bed in the room I had been delegated. My hair had been washed and piled into a messy bun on my head, and I was wearing a white nightdress. After her conversation with Mr Pinket, Mrs Cole had shown me to the wash room and given me a drab grey dress to wear. It was knee length and so ugly and old fashioned that I felt like my grandma wearing it. I had smiled when I had undressed and had seen that the scars on my stomach, which I had got from the accident, had vanished. Yet, my naval piercing was still there - I had got that on fifteenth birthday, a secret from my parents at the time. My body had obviously reverted back to its fifteen year old self, but I had no idea why.

* * *

After I had dressed my wounds, revelled in the glory of a bath, and done some laundry (by hand, no washing machine in 1942!) for Mrs Cole (I had to pull my weight, apparently) I had eaten a tea of watery stew and bread, ignoring the children who kept glancing at me. Tom Riddle had seemed to be studying me like he would a text book. Then, I had retired to my room, feigning tiredness from my injuries. Although unhappy, Mrs Cole would not refuse when I was injured.

So, I had put on my nightdress, again like something out of my grandma's wardrobe, and had sat on my bed, going over my conversation with Dumbledore. At one point, my mind had suddenly gone _Holy shit, this is real! _I had hidden the money under the mattress, as the bedroom doors here did not lock, and I was turning the envelope over and over in my hands. Taking a deep breath, I opened it, pulling out the thick parchment. I unfolded it and, with shaking hands, began to read.

_Jessica, _

_I only have one thing to say to you: The Prologue was fiction. Harry Potter has done his part. Now, you must, too. The ability to stop Him rests with you; it is in your blood. You must do this. _

_To save the future you must change the past. _

_You know what you have to do. _

_M _

**A/N – So, what do you think? I worked really hard on this chapter, as I wanted to get the explanation over with so the story makes a bit more sense, and so I can devote the next few chapters to Jessica/Riddle interaction – I am just dying to start writing that! Hope I've not disappointed with the way things have turned out! I didn't want this fic to be one where the OC is flung into the past by accident; I have tried to make the story as unique as possible. As you can see from this chapter, Jess has a purpose, and there is a bigger, more complicated plot here.**

**geekyassangie –your review covered a lot of the questions I was aiming for this story to raise, and I'm so pleased that Jess is a likeable character. Thanks for the review! **

**Theta-McBride – thank you for your review, glad you're enjoying it, as you can see from this chapter she was expected, and I hope it was explained well enough. But who sent her into the past?**

**I noticed that a few people have followed this story or added it to their favourites. It would be really useful to me, as a writer, to know why. What are you enjoying? Is there anything I haven't been clear on or isn't really working? Please review and let me know!**

**Thanks for reading**


	7. Chapter 6

18th August, 1942

I went to university to be a teacher. My mum had encouraged me to choose a subject to do my degree in that would benefit me the wider world, a subject that showed I had a good rounding of knowledge and abilities. After much arguing with her, I finally decided not to do a degree in Education, where the only possible career at the end was teaching. I finally chose to do History instead, my best subject all the way through school and college. It was a good thing I did, too, because six weeks into my first semester at university I decided, for the first time in fifteen years, that I absolutely did not want to be a teacher. My trip to 1942 and Harry Potter land showed me that I had definitely, one hundred percent, made the right decision.

"So, the first group to match the word cards to the picture cards gets – can you listen please? Be quiet! Come on now, let's all look at the cards. Kids! Be - Will you all just SHUT UP!" I'd finally had enough. I slammed a book down on the table so loudly the whole room vibrated. The snot-nosed children suddenly ceased their incessant chatter and giggling and stared straight at me. I sighed in relief. Finally.

"Right, if you could all listen to me we're going to - Timothy Dobbinsif you so much as _think_ about _throwing_ that paper aeroplane I will throw _you_!"

I heard the door to the teaching room creak, and looked past the desks to the back of the room. Tom Riddle was stood, arms crossed, leaning gracefully against the back wall, a smirk plastered on his face.

"What do you want?" I snapped, exasperated. "If you want to take a few of these little buggers then be my guest." But he didn't need to take them, because as soon as they had become aware that he was in the room, the ten children I had been attempting to teach suddenly scuttled back to their designated desks and sat, backs straight, facing the blackboard (yes, _blackboard,_ not white board or interactive board). They had all suddenly gone pale and their eyes were glued to the instructions I had written on the board. They really _were_ scared of him, then.

Since my arrival at the orphanage a week ago, I had heard rumours about the infamous Tom Riddle, who patrolled the corridors at night and hung rabbits from rafters (Billy Stubbs was still very upset about that, so he told me). I had yet to have much interaction with him, though, as he kept to himself. One girl, Amy Benson, had kind of latched herself onto me. She had told me that no one went near Tom Riddle, that he was a nasty freak who was dangerous and belonged in an asylum – which is where he was rumoured to spend the school year. There were no other girls in the orphanage Amy's age, well, I guess my age too, since I was suddenly inexplicably 15 again. I couldn't stand Amy's incessant giggly and immature jokes, and after that first conversation with her, when I was informed all about Tom Riddle and subjected to some awful gossip, I had been avoiding her like the plague. I guess if I was mentally 15 then it wouldn't have bothered me that much, but despite looking like a schoolgirl, I still had the mind of a 19 year old university student, one who had already been through the silly teenage stage and who had a heedful of knowledge and maturity to match. That was why I had volunteered to look after the younger children in the teaching room.

During the day, the children over ten had chores to do all day, and were given a list to do each morning. This didn't bother me as much as Mrs Cole had hoped it would. She was doing her damndest to make my life hell. My list consisted of non-stop work, including things for the neighbours down the street. I wasn't finishing until seven at night, when everyone else finished at five, and I was starting at seven in the morning, an hour earlier than everyone else. I had juggled three jobs the summer before I started university to save money, and once at university I had two jobs that mostly consisted of evening work in a bar, as well as lectures and assignments. At 19, I was no stranger to long working hours and little sleep, yet a normal 15 year old girl would have suffered under the workload I had been assigned. It was my mentality which kept me going, and it was dealing with a boss from hell in one of my jobs at university that helped me bite my tongue when Mrs Cole was on one of her rampages. When I hadn't appeared at all affected by her chores and lists, Mrs Cole had put me in the teaching room, where the children under ten spent their day doing schoolwork. Some of it consisted of homework their school had assigned, and the rest was made up by Mrs Cole. Poor kids, being made do schoolwork during their school holidays. Usually, Mrs Cole's assistant, Jenny, led the class. She to help Mrs Cole interview for new employees, and wanting me to face a new challenge, I had been placed in charge of the teaching room. I think Mrs Cole thought that putting a 15 year old in charge of teaching ten kids would send me running for the hills, but like I said before, I only looked 15. I had the mentality of a 19 year old. Yet, the little brats were still running me ragged. And now Tom bloody Riddle was smirking at me, amused.

"Thank you for quietening the class, Tom," I said through gritted teeth. It felt strange to say his name; to be talking to someone I previously thought was fiction.

"It was my pleasure, Miss Harrows," his voice was mocking. He pushed himself off the wall and sauntered up to the front of the room.

"I am to take over here," he told me, thoroughly enjoying telling me this. "You could hear the racket from the third floor. Mrs Cole would like to see you."

The children suddenly erupted in cries of protest, promising to be good if I didn't leave them with Riddle.

"If you'd all been good and done as I said to begin with, I wouldn't be leaving!" I said sharply to them, and shut the door loudly on my way out, silently fuming.

* * *

I slammed the door to my tiny room, throwing myself ungracefully onto the bed. Mrs Cole had informed me that, come tomorrow, I was being sent to someone called Mr Hillsbury out in the countryside every morning. His wife had died a few years back, and the modest country house had descended into disarray. He needed a cleaner, someone to cook his meals and look after the house. Mrs Cole had volunteered me. It meant I had to leave the orphanage at 5am everyday to get the bus out of London, so that I could arrive at his house for 7:30am to begin his breakfast and my daily chores. I would not be arriving back on an evening until 8. Anyone would think Mrs Cole didn't want me around.

I stood up and walked over to the mirror. My head wound was healing nicely, and the grazes on my knees had virtually gone. I was still getting used to my long hair, but had taken to keeping it in a messy bun, piled on top of my head. The drab, grey dress of the orphanage made me look pale and washed out. On my first day at the orphanage I had been sent into London with the money Mrs Cole had allocated me. I had purchased four dresses (not that I had worn them yet as everyone had to wear their grey uniforms in the orphanage) with stockings, underclothes and shoes, as was on the list she had given me. I had bought a bar of soap and some hair ribbons; although I preferred to use the hair bobble I had brought with me in my purse from 2013. The money Dumbledore had given me would have covered some make-up, and I was pleased to find that 1942 had the make-up I was used to. Lipstick, face powder, rouge, and mascara filled the shelves. However, Mrs Cole had told me she would inspect my bags when I returned, and I knew she would want to know where I had got the money to purchase the make-up from. Therefore, my pale skin remained make-up free for the first time in five years.

A knock on my door startled me, because everyone was meant to be doing chores. I hoped it wasn't Amy Benson, she barely stopped to take breath when she talked. Opening it, my eyes widened at the sight of Tom Riddle stood there, arrogantly.

"Can I help you?"

"I just though you may want to thank me," he said, his voice smooth.

"For what?" I asked incredulously.

"For amending your abysmal lesson downstairs, of course. What has the wonderful Mrs Cole got you doing now?" his face was calm and composed, but his cool eyes danced with mirth. Stepping back from the door to open it wider, he took it upon himself to walk right by me and scrutinize my room. It was bare, and not much to look at.

"I have to travel to the countryside everyday to be some old man's housekeeper," I told him reluctantly. To my surprise, he snickered. I raised my eyebrows at him questioningly.

"It is no secret that Mrs Cole does not want you here, your sort are never welcome. If you have to stay here, the least she can do is get you out of the house as often as possible, this was obviously her solution," he told me airily, eyes still appraising my room.

"What do you mean, _my sort_?" I asked, affronted. I still had one hand on the door, hoping he would take it as an invitation to leave. From what I knew from reading the Harry Potter books, Tom Riddle was not sociable in the orphanage, did not have any friends, and certainly did not go inviting himself into _muggle_ girls' rooms. So what was he playing at?

"You know what I mean. Mrs Cole believes you to be a lady of the night," he said it so matter-of-factly, and without looking at me, that it took me a minute to realise what he had said.

"Excuse me? She thinks I'm a, a... a prostitute?!" I stammered out. "Why on earth does she think that?" I gasped. He just raised his eyebrows at me, and smirked that God awful smirk of his. Of course, the clothes I had arrived in battered and bruised, escorted by a police officer. It certainly explained a lot of her actions towards me, but seriously – I'm meant to be 15!

"I take it she is incorrect, then?" I just gaped at him. Then I became angry, how dare he? How dare he judge me when he was going to go on to commit crime and murder?

"Just get out, Riddle! Get out now! Don't think I've not seen you, watching me from your stupid little corner in the rec room, you pervert. Is that why you came here, knocking on my door, hoping for a quick shag? Well piss off, you hear me? Get the bloody hell out of my room and stay away from me!" He actually looked startled for a second. Then his composed mask was back in place. Flipping his hair off his forehead, he looked at me, eyes narrowing. In that second I could see the face of the future Lord Voldemort, the face that every wizard and witch would come to fear. The anger practically radiated off him and his eyes flashed, his jaw set.

"My, my, my, such language for a young lady. I see Mrs Cole may have a point after all. I actually came here to tell you that you are to go to town with Jenny as she is done with the interviews now, not for a 'quick shag', as you put it. Such foul language, Miss Harrows," he was circling me now; I could feel his breath on my neck. I refused to be intimidated by this boy!

"Why didn't you tell me Jenny wanted me as soon as you saw me, then? I'll be keeping her waiting" I rounded on him, eyes blazing with anger. He was such a bloody prat! I was not going to back down to him like he wanted.

"Because I am curious about you, Miss Harrows. You have caught my attention. I think you are very interesting indeed, and I want to learn more about you." With that, he stalked from my room, leaving my head spinning.

How had I made him curious, I had only seen him twice in the week I'd been at the orphanage? Had he been watching me in secret? Why was he curious about me, what had I done to get his attention? Well, I assumed I would find out soon enough. After receiving the mysterious note from Dumbledore, I had re-read it every night before bed, and I now thought I knew what I had to do. If the prologue never happened, then that meant that harry never got his happy ending? Voldemort was defeated before the prologue, so does that mean he came back? That the wizarding world was once again plunged into disarray? If so, why wasn't Harry fighting to defeat him again? Or had he tried and failed?

Either way, there was only one thing I was certain of, and that was what I was meant to do in 1942. I was meant to stop Tom Riddle, and that meant getting his attention, getting to know him so that I could discover his weakness. It still all seemed like a dream to me, but after our recent confrontation, I had seen his anger and fury seep through, and I knew undoubtedly that he had the potential to become Lord Voldemort. The world of Harry Potter was still very much seen as fiction to me in my mind - but the world I was in _now_? That was very much real, and Tom Riddle was existing in it too, and he would grow up to become the most evil person ever. I had to stop him, I had to save this world from him, because it was the world I was living in, and I did not want to see it ruined. I refused to be a victim of Tom Riddle. From now on, I was going to do everything I could to stop Tom Riddle, because as well as saving everyone who would become his victim, if I did my duty, I had hopes that I may get to go home.

**A/N - Well, thanks for reading. I am off on holiday for two weeks now, but will update when I get back. Thank you to everyone who reviewed and followed/favourited this story, I would love to hear your thoughts on this chapter. Thanks for your reviews! **


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